


Box of Tricks

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ruby provides wine and advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 15:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: All Gold wants is to be left alone to run his shop in peace and quiet. Which would be entirely possible if only new to town Miss French would kindly desist from seeking his advice every day on random artefacts she's trying to sell to raise funds for the library. If he didn't know better he'd almost think she was trying to get under his skin.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s swelteringly hot in the attic, with its tiny windows that refuse to open, and Belle is starting to wish she’d left the sorting out of the five remaining donation boxes until the weather breaks. However, needs must and fundraising efforts wait for no woman, so sighing she slices open the top of the carton closest to her and prays fervently it’s not filled with packets of dried fruit, like the last four boxes have been.

No desiccated coconut this time. Instead, bric-a-brac, covered in so much dust it gets into the back of her throat. No doubt it’s just a load of old tat but at least it’s more interesting than years out-of-date food.

Rolling up the sleeves of her by now filthy shirt, she dives in.

Lots of assorted mismatched cups and saucers. Most of them are chipped but there might be one or two matching sets that could be pretty, when cleaned up. 

A box of antique buttons. Jet and pressed glass and a pair of amethyst studs.

Another box, this time filled with costume jewellry. She holds a necklace up to the light and admires the way the cut glass beads glitter. There are some art deco-style brooches, a ruby red cocktail ring, an engraved silver bangle that sits cool and heavy in the palm of her hand. Not a bad haul, and might definitely be worth a few dollars.

A stuffed bird that has seen better days. Belle looks away from its sad, beady-eyed stare.

A sewing basket but well used so probably not worth anything. Although the lace bobbins inside are pretty cool.

One or two books that are the worse for wear and not collectible. Belle snorts at the title of the paperback. Some lurid romance if the cover is anything to go by. Belle’s tastes in literature are far more rarified so the book lands on the floor with a thump. 

Some enamel pots and decorative water jugs. Maybe there’s a local painting club who might be in need of utensils.

A jar of pickled onions. Honestly. Why?

Another stuffed animal. Belle studies it. Some sort of rodent, she thinks, based on its front teeth alone, and puts it next to the bird. They can keep each other company.

Last but not least, wrapped up in old newspaper, is a small mantelpiece clock, mahogany wood and still ticking. She places that one carefully down. With a little love and care and a lot of polish, someone will snap that up.

Sitting back on her haunches, Belle reviews her loot. Not a bad haul, she thinks. She just needs to decide what next to do with them but that can wait for another day. It’s way past six o’clock and she needs a shower and to wash the dirt out of her hair. Friday evening means drinks with Ruby and if there’s one thing she’s learnt in the four weeks or so that Belle’s been living in Storybrooke, it's that there’s hell to pay if valuable drinking time is lost to tardiness. 

Time to get ready.

00000

Ruby and Belle, huddled in a booth for the last hour or so are already the best part of a bottle and a half to the good and it turns out that Belle is a bit of a lightweight when it comes to red wine. So when Mr Gold enters the diner, she can’t help but nudge Ruby in ill concealed delight. It’s almost as if Belle’s conjured him up, given she’s just spent the last thirty minutes or so wondering out loud to Ruby about whether he’s married or not and if not why not and does Ruby think he’s interested in women that way?

As a concession to the heatwave he’s today wearing a suit of the lightest grey which accents the silver in his short hair very nicely and Belle can’t help but admire how distinguished he looks. She squirms in her seat as a brilliant idea suddenly fizzes around her head. Mr Gold owns an antique shop. She has antiques. He can sell all her objets d’art and thus help raise lots of money for the wing of the library she’s helping to restore. Everybody wins.

She taps Ruby’s arm and says in what she endearingly thinks is a whisper that she’s going to seek his views on the treasures in her attic (judging by the way Gold quirks an eyebrow as he carefully studies the menu, her voice is travelling a lot further than she realises). Before Ruby can hiss a warning, Belle is already sliding out her seat and click clacking across the room, her bright blue eyes locked onto her target. 

She's aware that he's not the most popular man in town (according to Granny, he knows his contracts inside out and upside down so woe betide anyone thinking they can pull a fast one over him). And admittedly she has yet to personally make Mr Gold’s acquaintance but seriously, not even he could object to helping support a good cause? The bottom line? He’s just an efficient businessman who's good at what he does. 

Standing at the bar, Belle notes to herself that Gold's not even that physically intimidating; he's a slender, middle aged man who happens to look good in a suit. So, in summary, pretty harmless. And Belle - if she says so herself - is an excellent judge of character.

It turns out he’s about as harmless as a rattlesnake.

Her genteel cough (or series of increasingly loud coughs) eventually draw his eyes in her direction. They are carefully, studiously blank and yet somehow despite her inebriation she can tell he’s annoyed. Annoyed at being interrupted. Annoyed that it’s her doing the interrupting. 

He remains silent and very, very still and Belle feels her insides turn to ice because the one thing she has never really been able to handle is having the silent treatment dished out to her. It makes her panic, makes her mind freeze. And sure enough right on cue, her ability to speak drains away, leaving her incapacitated.

After what feels like a lifetime of embarrassment, Gold sighs, asks for a black coffee to go and then turns back to face Belle.

“Was there actually something you wanted or do you spend a lot of your time doing a fairly decent impression of a goldfish?” 

Belle snaps her mouth shut and delivers what she hopes is a shrivelling glare. 

It seems Mr Gold is made of sterner stuff. Granny places a coffee on the counter and without taking his eyes off Belle’s face, he feels inside his jacket and withdraws a note before handing it across the counter, saying to keep the change.

“Well scintillating although this conversation is, I’m afraid I must bid you a good evening Miss French,” the mean old snake says with an ironic nod of his head and then he tip taps his way to the door before heading out into the twilight beyond. Belle glares at the entrance way as if it's personally offended her

“That went well, dear,” Granny opines, breaking into her dark thoughts. “He reduces most people to tears so I’d say he probably likes you.”

Belle fails to find any encouragement in those words and slinks wordlessly back to where Ruby is lounging in her seat, eyes bright with laughter. It seems a better strategy is needed so with that in mind Belle tops up both their glasses and settles in to plan her campaign.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s early Saturday morning, so early that only faint rays of light are shining through to illuminate the floor of the attic, or rather what can be seen of the floor because most of it is covered in teetering piles of - stuff. 

At first sight it looks as if there is no sense of organisation but on closer examination over in the left are the books (non-fiction, literature and popular fiction separated out). In the far corner are all the possibly valuable trinkets - jewellry, mainly, but also a small number of watches and cufflinks. In the centre lie the tea sets that are in saleable condition. By the door are what Belle likes to call ‘miscellaneous’, namely the random pieces that range from silver salt cellars to carved wooden boxes, and from taxidermy that’s seen better days to broken electronics. And in front of her are what she fondly thinks of as ‘things that are really, really, REALLY going to annoy Gold.’ 

She’s dropped the Mr because she doesn’t think he deserves that courtesy after his little performance in Granny’s the night before.

Belle, wearing just a long sloppy t-shirt, hasn’t had much sleep (partly because she and Ruby only finished agreeing the details of Belle’s ‘Gold’s going to wish he never messed with me’ campaign at midnight so she’s still a little the worse for wear and partly because even when she did get to bed, she couldn’t close down the memory of being sneered at, and publicly ridiculed for no good reason). 

But she’s feeling strangely energised, despite the hangover and fatigue. She has a very over-developed sense of what is good and proper and Gold was neither of those two things. Belle also believes strongly in education. Educating those who know little, and educating those who should know better. He falls firmly into the second category and Belle is itching to get started on teaching him right from wrong.

He’s got one - one - chance to behave like any normal decent human being would and then it’s game on.

She patters downstairs and clicks on the kettle, selecting her favourite cup, one she bought in a thrift shop years ago when she treated herself to a weekend away and spent it by the sea, pootling around the boutiques and eating cream teas. She traces her finger around the swirling blue pattern until the water’s hot enough to pour into the pot and then while the tea’s brewing she prepares breakfast for Pumpkin and Squash, her two ginger kittens who are winding playfully between her legs.

Finally plopping down onto her squishy sofa, cup steaming in front of her, cats either side, she re-reads the notes she took down last night. Or rather she tries to re-read them but it seems that the third bottle of red had somewhat of an effect on her ability to write in a straight line or full sentences.

“Kiss...my….attic?” Belle frowns and holds the paper further away from her and then when that doesn’t work, at a 45 degree angle. It seems that possibly they’d gone a bit off topic towards the close of the night.

“Hmm. Right, well. What else is there?” she ponders out loud and then returns to reviewing the list. None of it makes a great deal of sense in the clear light of day.

Pickles. 

Toaster. 

Dead hat. Hat? Belle cannot for the life of her think what that might mean but then suddenly she remembers Mr Pickles, with the rotten teeth and the threadbare fur, upstairs in the odds and sods pile. Not hat, but rat. 

Satisfied she continues perusing. 

Bracelet. 

Mills & Boon.

The final entry, in Ruby’s neater writing, makes Belle blush and she quickly turns the page over, harrumphing to cover her own embarrassment. Yes, well, perhaps she’d over-shared with Ruby about some of the things she’d like to do to Gold if she ever got her hands on him.  
On the other side, there’s a schedule of timetabled visits to Gold’s shop, each carefully planned to maximise his annoyance, so either just before he takes his lunch break (always at one o’clock, without fail) or five minutes before he shuts up for the day (six o’clock on the dot). Not that Belle's a stalker or anything, everyone in Storybrooke knows Gold's routine.

And today has a tick against it, and an item to take in.

She sips her tea and wonders, briefly, if she’s doing the right thing before shrugging her doubts away. If he plays nice this evening, they both win. Gold never has to lower himself to her level again and she walks away from him with some money raised. 

00000

Gold has had a steady flow of customers today, and with each chime of the door bell, he’s become increasingly irritated. The mayor spent a quarter of an hour pretending (badly) she was interested in one of the old bicycles on display for Henry’s birthday when all she really wanted to do was to sniff out what Emma was up to. Charming came in asking if he wanted to buy a puppy as the animal shelter was struggling to cope (Gold had sent him off with a flea in his ear). Henry was the next over the threshold, asking if he wanted help with any chores because he could do with the extra pocket money. All he needs now is Snow and the Sheriff and he’d pretty much have the full Mills Charming house, taking up his time and generally being annoying (although he has offered his grandson a couple of days of work sorting out some of the shelves in the back room because he’s not a total grinch). 

Gold glances at his watch. Five thirty. He just has time to finish polishing the last of the teaspoons so he can put them on display on Monday and then he can head off home for an evening drinking whiskey and catching up on some paperwork. 

He holds back a sigh. While he certainly doesn’t hate his own company even he has to admit that perhaps there are more exciting things to be doing on a Saturday evening than the accounts. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind. At least he can cook himself that steak and treat himself to a glass or two of a very pleasant red so he supposed things could be worse.

When the bell rings again, Gold can’t even be bothered to raise his head when he growls that he’s closed for the evening. The door slams shut and he’s about to thank any god that’s listening that at least one person in this forsaken place has the sense to leave him well alone when the sound of heels approaching makes him jerk his head up.

Standing in front of him is the librarian, a look of determination writ large on her face.

Well well. This makes a change from the usual time wasters. He’d thought after last night that Miss French might have given him a fairly wide berth but it seems she’s made of sterner stuff. Or the generous consumption of alcohol she’d clearly been indulging in has made the memory of their encounter a trifle hazy.

Belle continues on her way to the counter and Gold finds himself holding his breath until she’s right in front of him. Her silence is disconcerting and he feels the need to do something to fill the void so he picks up one of the spoons. Its coolness against his skin is pleasantly refreshing.

Belle leans forward and takes another of the spoons in her hands. Gold notices that she has nice hands. Small hands, neat fingernails, immaculately varnished in some subtle shade of pink. He also notices the way her fingers stroke along the handle and he feels a flicker of something that's gone before he has any time to analyse it. 

Eventually she speaks and he’s jolted out of his reverie.

“These are nice. Are they worth anything?” There’s nothing in her tone to signal she’s anything but politely interested but he can’t help feeling it’s a leading question so it’s with a little caution that he tells her that yes, they’re rare, dated from the reign of George III and at auction could reach up to $1000. 

Belle’s eyes widen and then starts to fish around in her bag, much to Gold’s baffled amusement. An assortment of things start to accumulate on the counter. A packet of tissues, a lipstick, a wallet, keys, her phone, a book. Then another book. He’s just trying to read the titles when with a triumphant cry Belle retrieves a blue velvet box and pushes it across to him.

When he looks from the box to her, she says impatiently “Well open it then.” He dutifully complies. Inside is a silver bracelet. He can see immediately that although it’s attractive enough, it’s nothing special. He can also tell that this information is not going to go down very well with Miss French. She’s watching him and although she’s doing her level best, she can’t quite keep the look of excitement from her face as he looks it over.

The devil on his shoulder urges him to have a little fun with her.

“And you’re showing me this because---?”

Belle blinks as if she can’t believe he’s this stupid. ”Because - obviously - I want to know if it’s worth anything. It’s silver and it’s hallmarked so you must be able to offer me something for it.” 

He can hear the impatience in her voice and he can also hear the tap tap tapping of her foot as she waits to hear what he’s got to say. 

“Well I could offer you something.” He speaks slowly as if really giving this some thought, and the speed of the tapping increases.

“But I won’t.”

The tapping stops and Belle’s eyes turn from the blue of a summer’s sky to a winter storm in an instant.

“I’m afraid that I just wouldn’t be able to sell something like that in my shop. My pieces tend to be - well, to be frank with you, my dear - of a far higher quality than this.” 

Gold’s tone is carefully regretful as he places the bracelet back in the box and he can see that Belle doesn’t fall for it, not for a single second.

She leans over and slams the lid shut so hard and fast she almost removes Gold’s fingers in the process.

“If you ever ‘dear’ me again next time it won’t just be your fingers” Belle snarls, and he has to admit she’s really rather impressive when she’s angry. And potentially a real adversary, unlike say Regina who always shows her hand too quickly and therefore saps all the fun out of their battles. Gold suspects that Belle, well-educated and clearly fearless, might be much better at the sort of cat-and-mouse games that Gold enjoys so much.

“Duly noted, Miss French,” he says drily, noting that the fury storming in Belle’s eyes has now subsided and in its place a more calculating look has taken hold. 

Interesting.

“Well I’m sorry to have wasted your valuable time, Mr Gold. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening,” she says and if she’s not careful she might drown in the sarcasm pouring out of her mouth. 

Nodding brusquely she makes her way to the door before turning back to him. “I’ll be seeing you around,” she tells him and for some reason it sounds like a threat rather than a promise.

“I look forward to it,” he replies and then with a swish of the door and a tinkle of the bell he’s left alone again. A slight frown on his face, he puts the two spoons carefully back in their case. The shop seems less bright now, and a long evening is panning out in front of him. He wonders whether this has been an wilding amusing one-off or if he’s going to be seeing more of Miss French. He switches off the lights, flips the shop sign to closed and locks up. Time for a rare steak, red wine, a spot of Bach and a ponder about what Miss French’s next move might be.


	3. Chapter 3

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this time, Miss French?”

Gold’s voice is as dry as the Sahara.

Belle whips out from behind her back a battered old toaster that’s seen been days, and places it between them on the counter. The two of them study it in silence.

“It’s broken,” she supplies helpfully, when it appears Gold is not going to say anything, face like carved granite apart from the very small twitch in his left cheek that Belle notes with interest. 

“I can see that,” he eventually grinds out, before affecting a faux apologetic tone. “Although I’m afraid I confess that I am just a trifle confused as to why you think it might be of interest to me.”

Gold leans forward and rather gingerly nudges the offending toaster towards the librarian. 

Belle pushes it back to him. “But the sign outside says you mend things, and this clearly needs mending,” she explains as if talking to a not very bright ten year old. “See,” she says, and gives him a helpful demonstration of how the temperature knob refuses to be turned up above 0.

When nothing happens (it’s a wonder what a tiny dollop of superglue can do) she continues. “And every time I’ve been in this shop you’re tinkering with something or other. The last time it was some sort of pendant, wasn’t it?”

Belle observes from beneath her lashes the shudder Gold fails to conceal, which pleases her enormously. She’s going to add insulting the man’s credibility as a serious antiques specialist to her short but growing list of things that really wind Gold up. 

“Firstly, Miss French I do not, as you so quaintly describe, ‘tinker,’ I carry out complex repairs on often fragile, badly damaged antiquities. Secondly, it was not some sort of old pendant, it was a pocket watch that costs more than some people’s annual salary.” Gold is hanging on to his patience, but only by a thread.

Belle thinks she knows how she might be able to tip him over the edge.

“Maybe this’ll help,” she ponders out loud and before he can stop her tips the toaster upside down so that a shower of burnt crumbs spray across his (formerly) pristine counter. Pleasingly, there’s rather a lot of them.

“I doubt that very much indeed,” he mutters sotto voce as Belle pokes the crumbs across the glass surface as if hunting for gold nuggets and then in a slightly louder voice says “will you please stop doing - whatever it is you are doing, Miss French, you’re simply make the mess that much worse.” 

Belle obliges and Gold throws a glare her way before he angrily taps his way into the back of the shop, reappearing a few seconds later with a dustpan and brush and quickly busies himself with sweeping up the crumbs. A minute or so more and off he goes again, this time returning with some polish and a brand new duster.

Focused as he is on removing the remains of Belle’s detruis, she is able to take a moment or two to cast an appreciative eye over his appearance. Today, his tie is a subtle shade of mauve with tiny red polka dots that complements his dark purple shirt (yesterday he was wearing moss green which made his eyes darker than ever, the day before that red stripes on black). 

She does like a man who knows how to dress.

Gold pausing in his overly vigorous polishing brings Belle back to the present. If she was a nicer person she’d almost feel sorry for the disruption she’s wreaking but then he’s hardly covered himself in glory either and well, you reap what you sow.

“You’ve missed a bit,” she advises, and Gold raises his head to look at her and something in his eyes makes her heart give one hard thump. He holds her gaze for a moment, black on blue, and when Belle points out the smear, he doesn’t break eye contract but brings the duster down hard on her fingers, making her squeal.

His eyes glint.

“Helpful as always, Miss French,” Gold murmurs sardonically and then wipes the last of the stains away.

Standing up straight, he looks between her and the toaster.

“Well, seeing as how you’ve gone to so much trouble,” and he places an added emphasis on the ‘so’ which makes Belle think for a moment that he’s on to her, “why don’t I see if I can mend this for you. Come back the day after tomorrow - unless of course you have another priceless artefact for me to look at for you in the meantime - and it should be ready for you. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve things to be getting on with, so good day to you.”

He makes a shooing gesture towards the door and Belle relaxes. She was worried for nothing, he still has no idea what she's up to but decides she’s done quite enough for the time being so she chirps her farewell and heads off to Granny’s for a burger and debrief with Ruby.

000000

Gold waits until the door closes behind Belle before he lets out a muffled groan. Insufferable. That’s what she is. Insufferable. Miss French is in and out, in and out of his shop like a jack in the box. He thinks wistfully of the good old days when he could actually get things done instead of having that chatterbox constantly bringing utterly useless things in to get his opinion on, bombarding him with questions and generally getting on his nerves.

Yesterday it was a box of buttons that she’d dropped on the floor so they’d rolled into every nook and crevice, taking nearly half an hour to retrieve. It would have been hard enough work as it was without Belle insisting on helping. And yes, it might be hitting the nineties outside but was there really any need for her to be wearing a dress that short or that low cut. He had barely known where to look and had had to have a long, cold drink after she’d finally left, to lower his temperature.

And the day before that, she’d come bustling in just as the kettle was boiling for his morning tea break, demanding he look at an old ivory letter opener. He’d barely had the time to warn her to be careful before the cut on her finger started oozing blood that had led to him having to bandage her finger and offering a cup of tea with two sugars in to help quell the faintness.

He eyes the toaster. Maybe - he wonders - if he does manage to mend the damn thing this will bring the whole thing to a close. She’ll get bored and find another victim to harass. And he does quite like fixing things. He’s good with his hands and there’s something very satisfying about making a broken object as good as new again. 

Fine, he’ll take it home with him tonight and see what he can do, over a glass of wine and - yes, some Mozart.

00000

In Granny’s, Belle’s just made Ruby snort into her iced tea.

“You didn’t actually tip the crumbs out?” Ruby chortles. “Oh my god, he must have been livid. Please tell me he was livid?”

Belle takes a sip of her own drink and considers the question. Actually, despite the extreme provocation she’s been offering him all week, Gold hadn’t seemed livid. Or even really annoyed, come to think of it. 

Yes. Even when she’d been almost nose to nose with him collecting buttons, got up in one of her favourite sun dresses that never fails to garner admiring glances, she’d not got much of a vibe from him at all. He’d looked a little flushed but it had been particularly warm that day and he was still wearing a jacket and waistcoat, the ridiculous man.

And today. Apart from the muscle twitch and his acerbic tone, his behaviour wasn’t much different from his usual day to day interactions, namely brusque and no-nonsense. By her and Ruby’s reckoning, he should by now be seriously irritated by her constant intrusions.

Belle glares at her burger. Does she need to up the ante or - is he onto her?

“D’you think he’s rumbled me, Rubes?” Belle asks. “And he’s just amusing himself letting me make a fool of myself?” She finds the idea that he might be playing her a little hurtful because however sour tempered can be, he is unquestionably smart and she hates the idea he might just think she’s some silly little girl. 

Ruby laughs. “He’s totally clueless, you’d have to walk up and down the high street with a sandwich board that proclaims what you’re up to before he’d have any idea.”

“You don’t think the sun dress was a mistake?” Belle has wondered whether wearing that was a false step in her campaign.

“Hardly, it’s not that revealing,” Ruby says before inhaling a handful of chips. Belle glances at Ruby’s unorthodox outfit of mini shorts and a midriff top, or lack of, and suspects that she and Ruby have very different views on what might be considered to be appropriate day attire.

Before she can give more thought to this, Granny comes over to see if they want to order anything else and then nods a welcome to a new customer. “Gold, be with you in a moment,” she calls. 

Instinctively both girls slide down in the banquette and from her vantage point Belle watches Gold make his way over to the counter and peruse the menu. From behind she can’t help noticing how snug the fit of his suit is and how it sets off his frame nicely.

“Stop ogling the man, will you,” Ruby hisses and Belle shoots her friend a glare.

“Shut up, he’ll hear you.”

“He’s not a vampire bat, Belle, he can’t possibly pick up on what we’re saying,” Ruby says confidently. “Now just sit up and act normal.”

Belle does as she’s told but she can no longer concentrate on either her food or the conversation, all her attention is on the man at the bar.

“You’re late today Gold,” she hears Granny say. Gold replies but in a voice too low to carry. Belle leans forward in a subconscious effort to listen in on their conversation but in doing so manages to knock her glass over, which lands with such a loud crash that everyone’s attention is now zooming in on their table.

Gold stands there in that stupid suit with that stupid smirk on his face, before offering her an ironic bow and turning back to Granny. By the time Belle’s mopped her skirt and dried the table, he’s gone, back to his dusty, quiet world.

Granny brings over a replacement drink, and hovers for a moment, as if there’s something she wants to say, but in the end she offers them a smile and gets back to work.

Ruby taps Belle’s hand to get her attention. “So, what’s next on the list then?”

Belle pulls out the by now rather tatty sheet of paper and ticks off ‘toaster.’ “It just says here ‘books,’ so I’ll take a look at some of the cheaper paperbacks and see what’s going to most wind him up.”

They chink glasses and settle in for a more detailed breakdown of what comes next.

00000

It’s getting late. There’s a half empty bottle of wine on the coffee table and a nearly full glass of red next to it. Soft music fills the room and Gold is in shirt sleeves, screwdriver in hand and toaster on lap.

He’s been a little baffled as to why the temperature gauge just won’t shift and is just about to give up when he catches a glimpse of something that looks suspiciously like ----

Glue.

That little minx.

She’d only gone and glued the knob in place.

Gold leans back in the high-backed chair, fingers steepled, with a frown on his face. He’d known something had been off with her but he’s put it down to the fact that he has a nasty suspicious mind but now, well now it seems he was right. The butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth librarian has been toying with him for reasons best known to her. 

Carefully sipping his wine, he takes a moment to savour the taste as he reflects on the last few days and Miss French’s seemingly random visits to the shop which now, with the advantage of hindsight, have obviously been anything but random. The dropping of the buttons. That dress (oh that dress). Those bloody crumbs (how long had it taken her to make them)? Yes, it’s all starting to make sense now. Well played Miss French, well played, he thinks, smiling grimly. But now it's time for him to demand entrance to the game. And Gold only ever plays to win.


	4. Chapter 4

It might be hot outside but it’s nowhere near as hot as Belle is currently feeling. She has to curb the desire to fan herself.

Lick. Turn.

Lick. Turn.

Lick. Turn.

She’s being tortured and for once she has noone to blame but herself. It’s the way he’s wetting the tip of his finger each time he turns a page of that blasted book. And what’s worse she’s absolutely convinced he knows exactly what he’s doing; winding her up, winding her tight.

Lick. Turn.

Lick. Turn.

How can such a small action have such a powerful impact?

A small noise in her throat that she just can’t quite control makes the man in front of her stop what he’s doing to run his dark eyes across her face.

“Is something bothering you Miss French?” 

Face blank but there’s a hint of something around his mouth that makes her want to punch him.

Belle plasters on a smile.

“No, no, I’m absolutely fine, thank you,” she grinds out and resolutely ignores the sardonic look that is being shot her way, biting back the retort she so wants to fire at him.

Seemingly undeterred by Belle’s uncharacteristic silence, Gold points to the books that are lying on the counter and says chattily, “well I must confess I was somewhat relieved that today’s box of tricks did not contain any more electrical appliances.” 

Gold is a man who never uses a word unnecessarily and Belle tries not to flinch. A dramatic pause hovers in the air between them before he twists the knife in a little deeper. “Because it took a considerable amount of my time to repair your toaster. In future, Miss French, you may want to avoid getting glue on your toaster.” His voice is completely neutral. “Although I should perhaps congratulate you on your rather impressive - uh - DIY skills.”

For a moment Belle wavers between fight or flight before settling on the latter option. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s guessed right, she nods stiffly at him and after muttering that she needs to get going, is already halfway to the door when his next sentence freezes her to the spot.

“An interesting choice of reading material for Henry, Miss French. I’m intrigued that the town librarian should deem “The Ruthless Rake” and “The Pirate Lover” to be suitable for an eight year old boy but perhaps I’m rather more out of touch with what today's youngsters like to read than I thought I was. Maybe you would like to enlighten me.”

What Belle would really, really like now is an obliging herd of elephants to stampede through the shop and trample her underfoot. A messy death, but a quick one.

She also wishes fervently that she hadn’t let Ruby talk her into spinning Gold a yarn about wanting to just have a few books valued before giving them to Henry. She’d planned to just drop them off and leave him to be annoyed at his own leisure but instead had found herself commanded by Mr High and Mighty to wait while he very slowly and extremely thoroughly made the point of going through each and every page of each and every book to 'check for blemishes'.

She really does hate him.

When Belle fails to offer up a riposte, Gold carefully licks the tip of his finger and taps the cover of “The Disgraceful Duke.” All she can hear is the clock in the corner ticking, and her heartbeat. She watches as his eyes flick down to the book and back up to her.

And then he licks his finger again, and turns another page. She’s not sure but she thinks that this time she sees the tip of his tongue. It’s very pink and for some reason this information does nothing to quell the heat flaring up inside her. She bites on her lip in the hope the pain will act as a distraction.

The man is surely trying to kill her.

“Are you quite alright Miss French, you’re looking a trifle flushed. Would you care for a glass of water?” 

Belle would care very much for a stiff drink but refuses to be in debt to the Devil so instead opts for a polite “no thank you.” 

Gold is all polite civility but he doesn't quite manage to suppress the half quirk of his mouth and she hates the fact that he’s enjoying himself so much.

He continues with his tortuously slow perusal. “As you wish.” And then there's a longer glance at her. Eyes like the darkest deepest velvet. Something hot and slippery slides around her stomach and she really can’t believe how she’s got herself so tangled up in his trap.

“Perhaps a glass of water would be nice,” she drags out. Anything to distract him. 

Gold continues to hold her stare and then very deliberately lifts a hand to his mouth, and slowly sucks on a fingertip. Belle can’t take her eyes off him as he then, still watching her, draws his finger out with a soft pop, and turns another page of the book.

“Of course, anything to oblige,” he says and carefully marks the page. “I won’t be a moment.”

She waits until she hears the sound of water being run and then she’s at the door, wrenching it open so hard the bell jangles, before moving as quickly as her heels allow along the street and out of sight.

00000

Gold takes another sip of a sub-par scotch. The Rabbit Hole is many things - dark, sticky, noisy - but it provides him with, along with bad alcohol, anonymity. None of the clients partaking of cheap beer and pool are going to bother the pawnbroker here so he can be left in peace to drink and think.

All things considered he feels this week has gone rather well.

He sold a rather nice garnet and pearl ring.

He took receipt of (for a change) some artefacts that he might actually be able to sell.

And he’d got Miss French hot and bothered. 

Oh yes, toying with her and seeing her squirm had been highly enjoyable.

Swirling the amber liquid around his glass, an image of Belle, flushed and deliciously off balance, flashes in front of him. He’d come up with the idea of checking each page of those utterly ridiculous novels for defects, on the spur of the moment, when she’d plopped them down in front of him. He thought given her impatient nature that it would drive her to distraction. He just hadn't envisaged the distraction taking that particular form. And of course as soon as he'd spotted that telltale lip biting, he knew he was onto something so of course he’d pushed it to see just how far he could go.

It turns out quite far. Who knew Miss French had a thing for finger licking?

He downs the last of his drink and signals for a refill, only to quickly lower his hand when the door swings open to reveal none other than his favourite adversary and her loyal sidekick. While most men would be focusing all of their attention on the Lucas girl, what with her teeny tiny shorts and even teenier tinier top, Gold finds himself drawn magnetically to the woman next to her. 

Miss French seems to have foregone her usual attire in favour of something solely (it seems to him) comprised of sequins held together with gossamer thin ribbons. It’s glorious and all together indecent. She also seems to be more than a little drunk, leaning on her friend for support, as they weave their way over to a table.

The gods must be smiling on him because neither girl has seen him. Gold calls the bartender over and orders them a bottle of champagne and himself another scotch before settling back in to his seat, ready to enjoy the show. Keith takes over the ice bucket and two glasses and sets them down at Miss French’s table with a clatter. Although Gold can’t hear, there seems to be quite a lively debate going on, with Belle clearly rather agitated and gesticulating rather wildly. Perhaps he should have ordered her a luridly coloured concoction instead, as a tribute to the trashy romance novels she'd seen fit to inflict on him. 

He starts counting to five but it only takes three seconds before, with an impressively synchronised movement, two pairs of eyes are staring at him filled with varying degrees of hostility. The imp in him makes Gold raise his glass to mock salute them before starting his second countdown. This time he only gets to two before Belle is out of her seat and rather precariously on her way over to where he’s sitting, the light of battle shining bright in her eyes.

She makes impressively rapid progress, no doubt fuelled by the perfect cocktail of alcohol and rage. Gold waits until she’s by his side before he drolly warns her to be careful of the wet floor. “I wouldn’t want to see you slip and fall, Miss French.” 

This advice is responded to in the form of a death stare, lips pressed together creating an unhappy line and then Belle is folding herself onto the seat next to Gold, her leg against his, her breath tickling his cheek. She places a small, warm hand on his thigh and fucking hell, he can’t stop his body from responding like he’s a teenager again, completely overwhelmed by the sensation of warm flesh burning through his trousers, and a scent of something utterly delicious, like vanilla and lavender.

Belle hums under her breath and inches her hand slowly up his leg and thank god not all of his senses have gone begging as just in time he catches her hand in his, pinning it to his leg to stop its relentless upwards quest.

A surge of adrenaline rushes through his veins, just as all his blood rushes south. “Don’t play with fire, Miss French, unless you want to get burned,” Gold says, voice low and hoarse.” 

“And you shouldn’t start something you’re not going to finish,” Belle pants into his ear, voice equally ragged. And then before Gold has time to reply she pulls her hand free and is off, weaving her way back to her friend, leaving him strangely bereft and impossibly hard.

Miss Lucas mouthing ‘cheers’ at him and bold as brass knocking back a glass of champagne makes him grimly appreciate his pyrrhic victory. Perhaps a change of tactics is required.


	5. Chapter 5

Both Gold and Belle are lying low, licking their war wounds. Gold still can’t quite believe he let the librarian push him to the point where he lost control of a situation that on any other occasion he’d be bossing. And Belle can’t quite get the memory out of her head of how solid his leg felt under her hand, no matter how hard she’s tried.

Ruby had been less than useless when Belle sought her counsel, about as much help in fact as a chocolate teacup and barely able to speak for the spurts of laughter that she couldn’t quite quell when Belle had finally plucked up the courage to tell her exactly what she’d done at the bar.

So now - because Ruby is in the dog house - it’s just Belle and her new best friend, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, on a hot and humid evening when she barely has the energy to do anything other than lift the glass of wine to her mouth. It’s also, she believes, down to the heat that has permeated every inch of the living room that makes her unable to think about anything other than that awful, stupid, frustrating man.

Belle glares crossly at her phone, lying there so innocently on the table. She wishes she had Gold’s number so she could call him and give him another piece of her mind and tell him exactly how he absolutely is not her type. That her type is tall and blond and muscular. That he looks stupid wearing stupid suits and stupid ties and stupid shiny shoes. And that she absolutely does not appreciate the way the corner of his mouth crooks upwards when something she says amuses him.

Brown eyes are boring.

His teeth are dreadful.

The cologne he wears stinks.

His haircut is old fashioned. He needs to get it cut - and while he’s as it, dye out the grey strands that sometimes glint silver when the sun catches them.

Taking another healthy glug of wine, she flops back against her favourite soft, velvet cushion and allows another thought to creep unwanted into her brain.

Which is what would it feel like to run her fingers through his hair. It looks so soft and silky. She bets it would feel wonderful.

And oh dear, here’s another question that she can’t shut down. What would it feel like to run her tongue along his gold tooth? Would it taste of metal or of him. Would it be smooth or rough.

The very thought of it makes her stomach burn.

Belle moves to take another drink only to realise her glass is empty, as is the bottle. Sighing she gets up and goes to have a rootle through her cupboards in search of something else to chase away the thought gnawing away at her that she’s completely blown any chance whatsoever of forming a friendship (relationship, whatever) with Gold. That he thinks she’s crazy and borderline obsessive.

With a cry of triumph she unearths a bottle of pernod. A perfect summer’s drink, she feels, as she pours a healthy measure into a tumbler. Just what the doctor ordered.

0000000

It’s dark outside and Belle’s been so caught up in her daydreaming that when her phone starts to buzz she can’t for a moment work out what the noise is. When she finally picks up, it’s to hear Ruby’s voice asking if everything is alright, that she just wanted to check in on her.

“ ‘m fine, Rubes,” Belle assures her in her very best ‘I’m not in the slightest bit the worse for wear’ voice. “ ‘m just thinking about Gold.”

“See, Rubes, he’s got me all wrong. He thinks I’m an idiot but I’m actually very clever. I’ve got two degrees. How many degrees has Mr Hotshot got, huh. Bet he hasn’t got a single one.”

Belle sloshes some pernod over her dress as she emphasises Gold’s academic inadequacies. “He doesn’t know me Rubes, he doesn’t know the real me. You know why? Because he’s so judgy. Mr Judgy. Looking down on me, thinking he’s better than me.”

She slams her glass down on the table. “You know what, I’m going over there right now to tell him what I think of him being all Scottish and snooty and supercilious.” (And sexy, her mind unhelpfully supplies.)

While Ruby wavers between admiration for her friend’s ability to use long words even when roaring drunk and concern at what exactly Belle has in mind, Belle is already on the move. She tells Ruby she loves her, argument forgotten about in a haze of aniseed, and hangs up, grabbing a small box from the mantelpiece, slipping on the first pair of shoes that are within reach and is then slamming the door shut.

Warm air hits her as soon as she’s out on the street and Belle has to pause for a moment to try and clear her head of buzzing cotton wool. After a few moments she realises that she has not been attacked by killer bees and it is in fact safe to proceed to stage 1 of putting Gold straight so she tacks a not very straight line over to the pawn shop. 

Undeterred by the dark interior and the Closed sign, Belle spends several minutes first rattling the door handle and then banging on the door. She only stops when her knuckles start to hurt. Either Gold is a complete and utter coward who is hiding behind the counter or he has in fact gone home for the evening.

Well fine. So he’s not there but there’s no reason not to leave him a little gift. After a moment or two, Belle manages to kneel down and shove the contents of the box through the letterbox, before getting to her feet. Now that’s done, she’s left feeling a little deflated because although she knows Gold is going to be very unimpressed when he opens up in the morning, she’d really been after a proper confrontation rather than revenge by proxy.

She tilts back on her heels for a moment, pondering her next move. She glances at her wrist to check the time but she’s not wearing her watch. She’s pretty sure though that It’s not particularly late, and she hasn’t been outside today so a stroll might be a good thing. By her reckoning Gold’s pink house is about a thirty minute walk away. There’s still time for a tete a tete.

000000

Belle is hot, tired and her feet hurt like the very devil. The humidity has sapped her energy and spirits if not her hair, and if she wasn’t closer to Gold’s house than her own, she’d be turning back now in search of a bucket of ice cold water to sink into.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Belle reaches the brow of the hill and there it is. The world’s pinkest house, sitting there like an over-sized meringue. Marching up to the front door, with its glass front, she presses her finger to the doorbell and keeps it there, enjoying the sound it makes. When that seems to have no effect, Belle replaces her finger with her fist and hammers away until somewhere inside a light goes on.

Belle renews her efforts and then suddenly the door is flung open with a ‘what the fuck' and she loses her foothold, sprawling over the threshold. When she looks up, she sees the owner, leaning against the door jam, dressed in what looks remarkably like silk pajamas, with a look of outrage on his face.

Belle blinks owlishly at the sight, wondering why on earth Gold is ready for bed when it’s still so early and then decides it’s easier to stop thinking for the moment and instead enjoy not having to stand for a moment longer in those heels.

“Do you have any idea what time it is Miss French?” Gold growls, looking down at a nest of chestnut hair that conceals her face from him. The nest quivers but no reply is made.

“No? Well let me tell you that it’s two fucking thirty in the morning.”

Still nothing. He watches as Belle tries to raise her head but clearly the effort is beyond her. He wonders bitterly exactly how much she’s had to drink and then, deciding it’s not his problem, starts to close the door. It’s absolutely not his problem. She is not his problem. If she’s managed to get herself here, then she can manage to get herself back home.

Just as Belle starts to disappear from view, Gold hears her mumble something that sounds suspiciously like “Fuckwit.” Or fuck it. Either way, it makes absolutely no sense to him but then she says it again and raises her face to peer blearily at him, eyes not so much blue as bloodshot.

“Come again, Miss French,” he snarls, and then feels even more baffled when Belle mutters “I wish” into the doormat.

Gold looks at her, lying at his feet, dress ruched up around her thighs, one shoe off, the other on (did she really walk all the way here in those heels), and his mouth goes dry. There’s no way he can leave her there, drunk as a skunk, and as helpless as a new born baby. Sighing, he leans down and after a little bit of judicious tugging and pulling,manages to push Belle into a seated position. “If you wait here, I’ll go and put some clothes on and then we’ll have you home in no time, Miss French,” he says firmly.

“Don’t change,” Belle murmurs, and strokes his arm. “Nice,” she adds. “Silky. Suits you.” 

For once Gold cannot think of a single thing to say. Instead he watches through narrowed eyes as Belle runs her fingers up and down, up and down, before they start to stray towards his mother of pearl pajama buttons. "Too many," she says crossly, and tries to pluck open the top one. It seems that Miss French is clearly even more inebriated than he’d first thought. He gently moves her hand to rest it in her lap. “Belle.” (And it feels so good to finally say her name, although perhaps he might have wished for it to have happened in slightly more - auspicious circumstances.) “I’m just going to go and fetch the car keys, and then you’ll soon be home and in bed. Stay exactly where you are until I come back.” 

Leaving Belle to her strange utterings (something about being a tease, he thinks) Gold makes his way to the desk in the hallway to retrieve the bunch of keys. All in all, he’s been gone just a couple of minutes but when he returns, he notices immediately that Belle is looking more alert and slightly worried, if the chewing of her bottom lip is anything to go by.

It turns out he’s going to be having an unexpected house guest.

Belle’s locked herself out.


	6. Chapter 6

Gold wants to bang his head repeatedly on the work surface and to keep doing so until he wakes up from the dream he seems to be stuck in.

Which features a tipsy librarian.

Wearing his best and favourite pair of pajamas (moss green with slate grey stripes if anyone’s interested). That are too big and make her look tiny and vulnerable and in need of protecting.

With wet hair falling in ringlets around her shoulders because she took a shower in an only partially successful attempt to sober up. 

The image of a soapy, wet Belle is absolutely fucking not what he needs right now.

Groaning, he lets his forehead drop on to his arms. Please someone - anyone - put him out of his misery.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Strike that. Anyone but the person who’s now gently rubbing his back.

Slowly lifting his head, he shoots a glance at Miss French who’s standing next to him, nibbling on her lower lip like she’s nervous or something, while the heat of her hand soaks through into his shoulder blades.

Maybe it’s not a dream. Perhaps he’s died and is now in hell, where he has to spend all of eternity being massaged by the woman of his dreams who thinks he’s either a doddery old fool or a doddery mad old fool.

Sighing, he pushes himself up from the kitchen counter and turns to face his nemesis who surely should be not looking as delectable as she is given the amount of alcohol she’s obviously put away tonight. He can’t help his eyes from straying up to her mouth where he sees that the nibbling is now a ferocious chewing. Her lips are very plump and extremly kissable.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asks, conscious that his breathing isn’t quite as regulated as he’d like.

“I was wondering if you had any cocoa?”

Gold blinks. Cocoa. Christ, she really does think he’s ancient. And with that his heart sinks a little. He wants to shoot down the tiny voice in his head that’s led him to think he might have been in with even a ghost of a chance.

“Afraid not,” he says petulantly but not caring anymore. “I can offer you tap water or tap water. Take your pick.” He isn’t behaving like a gracious host should but quite frankly she’s the one who’s foisted herself on him; beating down his front door as if a pack of wolves was on her tail.

Belle fixes him with a look that he can’t quite decipher and then makes her way over to the sink where she starts running the cold tap. While she does so, Gold ponders his next step. A sensible man would cut his losses while just about still ahead and leave her to it and get himself to bed. But - but there’s a tiny corner of his mind that tells him he’s never going to get another chance like this of being with Belle, that if he closes the door now, they’ll go back to being at best distant acquaintances, at worst at each other’s throats again.

And for once he gives in to his desires, usually kept firmly under lock and key, because Belle French is in his kitchen, looking soft and warm, and he cannot, cannot let this evening end on a sour note. Or with regrets.

An offer of a hot toddy is made, and accepted (irish coffee for her, thank you very much) without so much as a hint of suprise on his guest’s face and then he instructs her to make herself comfortable in the lounge while he prepares their drinks. When it seems Belle wants to assist him she is shooed away (too distracting for him) and he starts his search for all the ingredients.

000000

Belle still can’t quite believe the way things have turned out tonight. If anyone had told her that she’d go from almost drinking herself into oblivion to wearing her sworn enemy’s soft, snuggly pajamas that smell (if she sniffs hard enough) faintly of citrus and spice, waiting for a nightcap to be brought to her, she’d have laughed in their face. 

Feeling restless, Belle starts to explore her surroundings, fascinated by the array of artefacts on display. Rows and rows of books that make her fingers itch: first editions; dictionaries; plays ranging from Marlowe to Chekhov, poetry (clearly he’s fond of the Romantics); an interesting mix of autobiographies; reference books on all sorts of antiquities; ancient history. And then there are the knicknacks. Vases. Glassware. China. Ornaments. An old cello on its stand. Three Victorian fans, spread out to show off the lace and ivory handles. Lacquer boxes. A bronze chinese dragon, scales tinted with shades of amber.

She’s just putting back a paperweight when a dry cough makes her jump guiltily.

“Millefiori, in case you were wondering,” Gold offers up. Belle opens her mouth to ask him what he means when he adds, “A thousand flowers.” She nods. 

“It’s very beautiful. But then so many things here are.” 

“You like nice things,” he says - a statement rather than a question, and Belle nods again.  
She drifts over to the sofa and watches with a frown when Gold sits in what is obviously his favourite armchair. It’s soft and brown and lived-in (much like its owner, she thinks). Belle pats the cushion next to her and Gold looks at the empty seat, then back to her with a confused expression on his face, that is then replaced with an even more fleeting of something akin to panic. Not wanting to push him so he bolts, she lets it slide for the moment, instead opting to return to his earlier comment.

“Define nice.” (She likes Gold and nobody could ever describe him as 'nice'.) 

Belle can see for that for a moment he’s thrown and then he leans forward, glass cradled between his hands (she wonders what it what feel like if he cradled her face like that), his brow furrowed in thought, humming quietly. 

“Alright then. Pleasant. Enjoyable. Agreeable. Amusing.” He pauses. “I feel like I’m being tested here.” (Well he is.) “Marvellous. Good. Delightful.” 

Gold takes a sip of his drink and shoots her a look over the brim of the glass which makes her throat feel tight and it has nothing to do with the whiskey burning its way down to her stomach. “So do I pass muster, Miss French? Have I met your no doubt impossibly high standards when it comes to use of the English language?”

There are sparks in his eyes now, voice teasing, and this gives her the courage to push him a little further. She leans in towards him and when she speaks her breath makes the hair falling down over his forehead flutter.

“Adequate I’d say. Maybe a six and a half out of ten for effort. With a ‘could do better’ scrawled in red.”

The growl he makes in response triggers a pressure that builds in her stomach and spreads to between her legs, heat coiling there in a way that is both delightful and embarrasing. Wriggling in her seat does nothing to alleviate the sensation so she tries to take her mind off the effect he’s having on her by going on the attack. 

“Oh I’m sorry, perhaps I should qualify what I mean by adequate.” The dark look he throws her way makes her want to grin. She’s getting to read him better now and knows his bark is worse than his bite. 

“Sufficient. Good enough. Satisfactory. I could go on…”

Gold throws his hands in the air to signal defeat.

“Yes, thank you for that, most enlightening indeed.” 

“Sorry, but it’s too easy to get a rise from you,” Belle chirrups and now she does grin at him, the thought crossing her mind that much as she admires his ability to wear a suit, seeing him in head to toe silk, showing a triangle of flesh where the buttons stop below his collar bone, hair slightly mussed and covering his eyes, is something altogether more special. Belle suddenly feels the urge to bridge the gap between them, to get as close to him as she can because she knows this might be the only time he’s ever this unguarded.

Carefully so as to not scare off her prey, she inches her way closer to him and is almost within reach of her goal when the clock on the mantelpiece chimes four times, making Gold jump. As soon as he exclaims about the time, she knows the moment they were having has gone and Belle wants to take the paperweight she was holding earlier and smash the clock to pieces. 

Sure enough, Gold’s getting to his feet, and puts out his hand to pull her up as well. Belle grasps his fingers and allows herself to lurch against him as the effect of the hot toddy kicks in. For a moment - just a moment - his arms come around her, no doubt just to steady her - but she’s sure she feels the lightest of touches against the crown of her head, making her heart pitter patter - and then he’s stepping away from her and towards the staircase. 

She has no choice but to follow him but does seize the opportunity to take his elbow. He barely flinches at the contact and she congratulates herself on a small but important victory as she relishes the feel of her hand on his arm.

Belle wonders just how slowly she can walk, to prolong the evening even if just by a few minutes, but even with her best delaying tactics being deployed, they’re at Gold’s bedroom door far too soon for her liking. She studies the flooring with avid interest, unsure what her next move should be.

The silence between them grows and deepens.

“Here we are,” Gold eventually volunteers in the spirit of communication but his effort falls rather flat when he realises his slip of the tongue. “Er, well, or rather this is my room. Obviously. Yours is just along the corridor. Where you were earlier. And the bathroom’s next door. Where you had your shower.”

Belle’s smile, tentative at first, widens as she waits for Gold to stumble his way to the end of the sentence. She places a reassuring hand on his. “I think I can find my way. And – um -I can’t thank you enough for taking me in tonight and looking after me.” She counts each of the pearl buttons on Gold’s pajamas (seven) before continuing. “Especially – well, espcially after the way I’ve been torturing you the last week or so.” She can feel her face heating up but summons up the courage to lift her head to meet his eyes.

When she does so, the look in them takes her breath away. They’re full of tenderness and she’s so overwhelmed that she can’t hold her gaze for a moment longer so she continues to admire the haberdashery.

“Well, perhaps you were a little provoked,” Gold says, in that soft Scottish burr that could be bottled and sold to lonely women worldwide. “Although I’m still not quite sure what I did to deserve that toaster.”

Ducking her head down even lower and feeling safer with a veil of hair around her hiding her face, she offers up such a quiet “it took me ages to make all those crumbs” that it’s more of a whisper.

“I’m sure it did,” he replies, laughter in his voice. “If it’s any consolation I can guarantee you that it took me even longer to sweep them all up.”

The silence between them grows again, as long as the shadows thrown by the soft lighting across the hallway and although it isn’t exactly uncomfortable, Belle is suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what could, what might happen between them. Before she gives herself time to think, she reaches up on tiptoe to gently press a kiss to Gold’s cheek and then she’s scooting down the corridor in search of a safe haven before he has time to react.

It’s a few seconds before she hears his door close.

And a few seconds more before she’s flopping down on the bed, arm over her face.

Oh god. Her head’s spinning and it’s not just because of the alcohol. It’s because she’s suddenly completely and utterly overtaken by lust. Lust for a man whose world is a million miles removed from hers. His is filled with deals, precious antiquities and expensive furniture and fittings. Hers is filled with evenings spent reading and drinking red wine with Ruby in an apartment that’s half the size of his kitchen. 

He’s so out of her league.

Down the corridor, Gold is sitting on the edge of his bed, his mind whirling at a thousand miles an hour. Because, standing in the corridor looking down at a rather shy and quiet Belle, he’d realised with a sharp kick to his gut that somehow - in between the bouts of torture she’s inflicted on him - he’s fallen head over heels for her. For a woman half his age who thinks the only thing he likes to take to bed is a hot milky drink.

She’s so out of his league.


	7. Chapter 7

Belle blinks hard and can’t for a moment work out exactly where she is. Raising her head (which feels unusually heavy) from the soft, downy pillow she notes the expensive wallpaper and the ornate wardrobe, as well as the sliver of light sliding across her face from the gap between the heavy curtains, before remembering with an unpleasant jolt that - oh - she’s not at home. She is instead currently installed in a bed owned by Mr Gold, covered in cool cotton sheets owned by Mr Gold and wearing pajamas owned by Mr Gold that have enveloped her in his scent. It’s the final realisation on that list which makes her stomach slide with slippery coils of heat.

Not for the first time in her life, Belle regrets the bad choices she makes when it comes to alcohol. No more hot toddies, ever. And she’s pretty certain that pernod will never cross her lips again.

An image of her lying on her face across Gold’s front door step unhelpfully flashes in front of her eyes and the warmth in her belly is replaced with ice that floods her veins. What must he think of her when he saw her sprawled out in front of him, drunk as a skunk and flashing her underwear?

Suppressing the urge to run screaming for the hills, Belle reaches for her watch and groans when she sees it’s already well past seven o’clock, which means she’s running late. She groans again when she sits upright because her head feels like it’s been slammed into a brick wall and adds red wine to her growing list of ‘never to be drunk again’ beverages.

Keeping her movements slow - oh so slow and so, so gentle - to not disturb the hive of bees currently residing in her head, she searches for her clothes, which are lying jumbled in a pile by the door. Wincing, she leans down to pick up her creased dress, and then slips it on over her head. Even that hurts. Everything else she was wearing gets stuffed unceremoniously into her bag; if she leaves now she’ll be able to have a shower at home before turning up to work.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, Belle opens her door just wide enough to inch her way through the gap and then tiptoes along the corridor, keen to not disturb her host who is no doubt still sleeping the sleep of the not-hungover. The thought of an awkward, stilted conversation over breakfast makes her stomach roil. A quick glass of water and she can be on her way, once she’s washed her face and detangled her hair.

Fifteen minutes later and Belle is slinking her way down the stairs with the stealth of a panther, barely daring to breathe, every creak of the floorboards sounding like thunder, and nervously checking over her shoulder every fifth step to make sure she hasn’t been caught in the act of escaping.

After what seems like several lifetimes, Belle eventually reaches the safety of the kitchen with still no sign of movement from the floor above, and starts to open cupboard doors in search of glasses as quietly as she can. And maybe a plate, because she is feeling a mite peckish and perhaps a slice of bread and butter to line her stomach before she walks back into town wouldn’t be a bad idea.

An unsuccessful search along the side of the kitchen closest to the windows overlooking a pleasant garden, complete with rose beds and a wrought iron bench, and Belle is starting to wonder grumpily just how many cupboards one man needs. It would appear that Gold has extended his love of hoarding to include an extensive collection of wedgewood. Any other time and in any other house, Belle might find the time for a closer look but right now she’s in a hurry and just wants a goddamn beaker.

Belle turns her attention to a drawer by the sink and with a cry of triumph which she swiftly tries to muffle discovers not just glasses but some everyday side plates as well that possibly didn’t cost an arm and a leg. 

Finally.

Two glasses of cold water later and the buzzing in her head has dimmed to a faint hum. Belle is slumped in a chair, nursing all that’s left of her dry toast, having given up on her quest to find butter (who doesn’t keep butter in the fridge she ponders as she chews on a crust). She’s feeling marginally better so long as the only moves she makes are smooth and slow. If she leaves now, she should be able to still make it in time to open up the library.

The jerk of her head when she hears a dry cough behind her absolutely does not comply with the requirements her body has set her. The room spinning like that, combined with the sharp pain behind her eyes, leaves Belle fighting to keep the nausea at bay.

It’s almost as if the man just poofs himself into existence.

“And how are you feeling this morning Miss French? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Gold sounds amused and unnecessarily chirpy. There’s nothing good about this morning Belle feels quite strongly and decides it’s safer for the moment to treat this as a rhetorical question so as to spare her having to cobble together a whole string of words that make sense. 

Belle lowers her head until it rests on the kitchen table and listens to Gold’s cane click clacking as he makes his way around the kitchen. The tap runs and then he’s filling a kettle. She hears the sound of eggs being cracked into a bowl and whisked up. A pan going on the stove. Butter sizzling. The aroma of omelette that makes her nose twitch with interest despite the pain she's in. 

When she finally summons up the strength to lift her head, it’s to see Gold, arms folded, leaning against the counter watching her, his eyes dark as the coffee he’s brewing. Cool. Inscrutable. Like the Gold of old, rather than the Gold she vaguely remembers from last night standing with her outside his room who was warmer, softer, kinder.

He might still be in his pajamas wrapped up in what looks like a velvet dressing gown with a tassle-y belt that her fingers itch to tug, while she’s dressed - or partially dressed (Belle guiltily recalls her knickers and bra, lurking in her bag) - but she still feels that he’s the one who’s better put together, more in control.

Belle can feel her cheeks heat under his gaze and instinctively puts a hand up to run it through her hair, trying to smarten herself up. The silence between them grows until Gold abruptly turns back to attend to his frying pan. Without looking at her, he asks if she’d like some breakfast and Belle hears herself say ‘yes please’ in a small voice. 

Gold slides an omelette onto a plate, accompanied by hot, buttery toast, and silently pushes the plate towards her, followed by a knife, fork and cup of coffee. Sugar and cream follow, both in dainty containers. It’s a weirdly domestic scene and Belle’s heart hurts a little because she knows Gold is only doing this to be polite and once she closes the door behind her, he’s never going to let her back in. But for the moment, she’s here with him and she’s going to savour it, starting with the omelette.

“This is fantastic,” Belle says around a mouthful of toast. Gold rewards this praise with a little grunt and then brings his plate over and sits himself down opposite her. Belle watches as he fastidiously cuts his omelette into tiny, perfect pieces before chewing each one methodically and is painfully aware that she’s almost finished hers already.

“Thank you. I’m glad you - er - enjoyed it.” He chews some more and Belle can’t help fixing her eyes on his throat as he swallows. She wants to run her tongue down it, wants to know what his skin would feel like against her lips. Feel him gasp with pleasure.

Gold intrudes into her thoughts. “I admit I expected you to be long gone by the time I got up.” Another glance out of those dark eyes.

Belle can’t hold his gaze and shifts uneasily. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, I was trying to be quiet but your floorboards aren’t conducive to a silent exit.” She doesn’t miss the tiny quirk of his mouth and she wonders if he was lying in bed awake, listening to her as she passed by his room. “ And I do have to be at work for nine o’clock. In fact, i need to get going shortly because in my heels I’m looking at an hour’s walk.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. God it’s good and she can’t help the little sigh of pleasure that escapes her lips. She looks at Gold and he’s staring at her, transfixed, and Belle worries she’s got egg around her mouth and dabs frantically with her napkin. “Have I…?” 

Gold shakes his head and now there’s a look in his eyes she’s not seen there before – they’re almost glazed over. He gives his head another shake and then lifts his cup before he looks at her across its brim.

“If you can bear to wait a few minutes, I can drive you into town myself and save your feet. I’ve got a delivery due this morning and I need to make sure I’m at the shop before they turn up.” Gold gets up from the table and points to the coffee pot. “Help yourself and I’ll be with you shortly. And leave the dishes, I’ll do those later.”

Oh, and if that hasn’t created a tingle of excitement that travels down Belle’s spine, because well, if she’s being completely honest with herself, there’s something rather hot about the thought of Gold controlling a car as powerful as a cadillac, those hands of his gripping the wheel, changing gears... 

Sighing contentedly at how things have worked out, Belle refills her cup and settles back down to wait, her mind pleasantly empty apart from images of Gold’s long fingers and what they could do to her, and Gold’s treacle-dark eyes and how one look from them makes her toes curl, and the triangle of smooth flesh above the top of Gold’s pajamas that almost certainly tastes of spice and musk...

And then. 

And then - out of nowhere, Belle suddenly remembers with a jolt as if she'd electrocuted what she did last night before starting on her trek up to Gold’s house. What she posted through his letter box. And what he is going to discover, in - let’s say - approximately half an hour. 

In her shock Belle loosens the grip she has on her cup, which falls to the floor; it’s a delicate (and no doubt expensive) antique, decorated with tiny blue flowers and gold leaves. Gasping, she drops to the floor and is relieved to see it’s intact apart from an almost invisible crack running along the rim and a tiny chip. She gently places it back in its saucer, hoping Gold won't notice the damage, and then quickly gathers her bag. If she leaves now, Gold won’t even realise she’s gone, buying herself just enough time to retrieve the package. No harm done.

Leaving her shoes behind in her rush to leave, Belle runs to the front door, relieved to see that it’s just on the latch, and easing it open, steps over the threshold and quietly pulls the door to. 

It’s all downhill from here.


	8. Chapter 8

When Gold enters the kitchen it takes a moment for it to dawn on him that Belle is nowhere to be seen. 

He accepts it’s taken him a little longer than he'd promised to get ready (and perhaps he should just have stuck with his first choice tie rather than selecting and rejecting more than half a dozen that now lie strewn on his bed). And he supposes that he could - in hindsight - have skipped the sleeve garters. And the cologne. And his lucky cufflinks.

The little flutter of anticipation that had made itself known in his belly on waking and has persisted ever since finally falls silent. His heart sinks into his boots. 

She left without even saying goodbye.

Gold’s first instinct is to blame himself. He should have known better. He should never have let himself start to believe that something could ever happen with Belle. Belle with her impossibly blue eyes, and chestnut hair, legs that go on for miles. Last night had obviously meant nothing more to her than a better alternative to falling asleep in one of his rose bushes, for all her soft words and gentle questions. 

His second is to blame Belle because Gold is a proud man and nobody - nobody - runs out on him.

A small flame of anger pops into existence. 

He should just have left her to wallow in her own misery, being pricked by the thorns.

The flame burns more brightly.

Well, if she thinks she can just run off like that without there being any repercussions, then she’s sadly wide of the mark.

Without even knowing how he’s got there, Gold finds himself by the front door, grabbing his car keys from the table by the door. His cane knocks against something and on closer inspection, he sees first one, then the other, of Belle’s shoes. And there’s another surge of that anger. She was in such haste to get away from him she couldn’t even bear to waste even a few precious seconds to retrieve them. 

Wrenching open the door, he hurls the offending shoes into the hedge that runs down to the road. He knows it’s petty but it does accord him a moment of satisfaction. If Belle wants them, then she can damn well come and get them.

A few minutes later and the cadillac is purring its way out of the driveway and in the direction of town. Switching the radio to his favourite channel, the notes of a piano concerto start to sooth Gold’s nerves and he concentrates on not thinking about Belle and not on how disappointed he’s feeling because that way madness lies. She’s made her feelings clear and he has to accept them, whether he wants to or not.

And let’s face it, he thinks, anger so quickly replaced by self-pity, why would someone like Belle give a man like him a second glance. He lives in a ridiculous pink museum, filled with objects that to a modern young woman like Belle no doubt seem old fashioned.

Perhaps he should get the house repainted.

Gold continues to drive on automatic as he ponders the merits of off-white versus taupe but then his mind helpfully encourages him to wonder which Belle would prefer so he shuts that line of thought down and instead focuses on what he’s going to do with the new batch of furniture when it arrives and this occupies him until he turns on the high street.

Gold parks up around the side of the shop and walks round to the front, grinding to a sudden halt when, to his complete and utter astonishment, he sees Belle kneeling on the pavement, rump in the air (making his mouth momentarily water and his blood run south), apparently in the midst of committing a crime. He watches for a moment or two as she carefully feeds one end of a metal coat hanger through his letter box before stepping up to stand behind her, trying very hard not to notice the way her dress is riding up the backs of her thighs. All it would take is a gust of wind and...

Right, time to focus on the felony being carried out in broad daylight.

“Is there something I can help you with?’ Tone carefully bland. “Because you seem to - er - be trying to break into my premises.” 

He is rather childishly pleased at the muffled squeak Belle makes, and he waits with interest to see what her next move is going to be. He can’t wait to hear her explanation for what she’s doing. Belle drops her head to the pavement and rests her forehead on the ground. Gold suspects she’s praying that if she stays like that for long enough, he’ll get bored and stop taunting her. 

Well pray away, Miss French. See where it gets you, he thinks to himself.

“Perhaps I should give the Sheriff a call, I'm sure he'd be happy to hear your explanation for this." Still nothing, apart from a tiny quiver of her bottom. "Or maybe you’re not feeling quite the ticket, should I call Archie?” Gold enquires chattily, when it becomes clear that Belle is willing to stay in that position until the next ice age. Ah. It seems he won't have to wait quite that long, as Belle lifts her head to throw him a look that manages to imply that she’d very much like to skewer him through his heart with the coat hanger, and his dark soul thrills that he’s got a reaction out of her. But then another expression flits across her face and she turns back to face the letter box. It’s a strange mix of fear and despair and Gold pauses to glance between the shop and the librarian.

And then it clicks with him. The reason why she took off like that this morning. 

She did something last night, did something to his shop and was hoping to - what? Retrieve whatever it is she posted through his letter box? Activate something?

A feeling of relief settles in his ribcage - relief that it wasn't something he'd done that had driven her away - only to be quickly usurped by the familiar sense of fury that Belle might have damaged his shop out of a petty need for revenge.

His mouth a tight line, battling to keep his temper under control, he turns to face his adversary.

00000

Belle - not for the first time in her life - is bitterly regretting that impulsive streak that runs through her veins. She looks up at Gold, who’s staring down at her with an implacable expression in those eyes of his that are darker than sin itself (and that really shouldn’t be sending shivers down her spine), and assesses her current position.

A few moments later and for once she finds herself unable to put a positive spin on how things are currently panning out for her. The bottom line is that she’s been caught on her knees by Gold trying to break into his shop after running out on him.

Could she plead temporary insanity due to excessive consumption of pernod? 

Another quick upwards glance from underneath her lashes makes her think not. Gold really does look very thoroughly pissed off, which, when looking at it from his perspective, she admits to having some sypmathy with. If she’d done what he’d done and legged it after being taken care of, and cooked for, she’d be pissed off too.

There is no way to save herself, Belle accepts, so it's time to confess her sins and accept her punishment. 

And then a thought pops into her mind. She reckons Rubes could be quite handy at picking locks. All Belle needs is a diversion, buying enough time to get into the shop and retrieve that package. 

But what sort of diversion is going to put Gold off the scent because he's nothing if not tenacious. Plus, he knows she's done something so it's going to take a miracle to distract him long enough to allow Ruby enough time to get into the shop and back out again without being discovered. There’s a corner of Belle’s mind where she knows that if she plays Gold, takes advantage of him, then any chance of a friendship is all but over but then - another part of her brain argues - if she does nothing and just lets him open up the shop...Well, she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't. 

Gold is still standing there, a light breeze lifting his hair and making it fall across his face. Without giving herself time to think, Belle takes one step, two steps closer to her quarry and then, carefully so as not to startle him, lifts her hand to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes. It’s as silky as she’d imagined and has to stop herself from running her fingers through it.

His gaze is steady as she takes another step closer still until she’s so near to him she can smell his cologne and see tiny flecks of amber in his eyes.“I’m sorry,” she breathes, leaning in to him and inhales his scent. “Sorry for leaving you like that. I just - I just panicked. It was wrong of me.” 

Belle’s other hand comes up to rest on his chest, his heartbeat fast and strong. “It’s still early. We could - uh - we could go and grab a coffee before you open up so I can apologise properly.”

She sees him glance from the coathanger which is lying on the floor to the door and back to Belle and senses an internal debate which is raging in his head although his face is carefully blank.

She doesn’t want to go into overkill and trip his spidey senses but another appeal to his better nature can’t do any harm. “Please, Gold. I promise not to take up too much of your time but it’s the least I can do.” 

Gold’s gaze settles on her face and then drops to where her hand still lies. When his eyes lift, there’s a faint flush across his cheekbones and he nods abruptly. “Half an hour Miss French.” A nod at Belle’s bare feet. “Allowing for the time it’ll take for you to hobble over to Granny’s.”

A victory then. But she knows she’s only won a battle, not the war. Together they make their way over the road. Once inside the cafe, Belle searches out Ruby and is relieved to see she’s on duty.

“Grab a seat and I’ll order. What would you like?” she asks.

Gold requests a large black coffee and she watches as he makes his way over to the farthest away booth and settles himself in. As soon as he’s got his back to her, Belle rushes over to the counter and signals for Ruby to come over. Once her friend has sauntered across to see what's up, as if she has all the time in the world, Belle grabs her by the hand and hauls her to the washroom so they can be in private.

“I've done something so, so stupid," Belle says as a form of welcome. Ruby's eye roll indicates that this is nothing new so Belle ploughs on. "Remember I told you I'd written Gold a note telling him what a dick he was?" Ruby nods. "Well, it made me feel so much better that I wrote him another one. And then another." Ruby nods, more slowly this time, sensing where this is going. Belle shuffles her feet. "And then one night when I'd had a bit too much to drink, I decided to list out all the things I hated about him. And - er - all the things I liked. Because, well, to balance things out."

"What sort of things are we talking about here," Ruby enquires. She sounds resigned.

More shuffling ensues and then Belle mutters something under her breath. Ruby swears.

"The fuck, Belle. Tell me you haven't done what I think you've done."

It soon becomes clear that all Ruby's fears have come to life. "Look, I keep Gold busy here and you can get in the back of the shop and get the letters. It won't take you more than five minutes and I'll cover for you if Granny asks where you are." Belle's desperate now and Ruby's nothing if soft hearted when it comes to her friends.

"Alright but you owe me big time. Have you got a hair slide in your purse, I can use that to slip the latch?" Belle kisses Ruby on the cheek, fishes around and finds what might work as a lock pick.

"Get back out there and I'll see what I can do," Ruby sighs. "And for god's sake put some panties on."

00000

Gold is moodily nursing his coffee (too weak, no flavour) wondering where the hell Belle's got to. Glancing at his watch she's been gone at least five minutes and he's just starting to think she's blown him out for the second time in less than an hour when she emerges from the bathroom. He'd assumed she'd gone to try and detangle her hair but she's looking if anything more flushed and dishevelled than she did first thing this morning. 

Despite the fact that he's still less than at ease with what's going on, and is sure Belle's up to something, he isn't able to completely switch off his feelings towards her. Truth be told, Gold can't really remember the last time he wanted someone the way he wants Belle, wanting to know what she tastes like, what she feels like. He craves her touch. And fuck, he's in so deep, like a man who's drowning- and if this is how he feels when he isn't even sure he can trust her...Christ, he's in trouble.

He looks up as Belle slides into the seat opposite. She's doing that lip chewing thing that makes him go instantly hard and why is his body reacting as if he's a randy teenager, given that he is in fact the shady side of fifty. He thinks of Granny having sex with Leroy and that helps - temporarily at least - to get things back under control. He picks his cup up to distract himself but then yelps when he feels a foot rubbing against his ankle. Belle blinks innocently at him and continues to let her toes explore his leg while Gold - appalled and thrilled in equal measure - stares back, his mind reeling. It's as if he's been thrown into a parallel universe where beautiful librarians flirt with middle aged pawn brokers. He snatches his leg away but Belle's got the bit between her teeth and when she resumes her examination of Gold's lower limbs, starts half way up his shin and makes such rapid progress that before he knows it her toes are resting just below his crotch.

Gold's on his feet in an instant. It's all too much for him and he need to get out of there and into the fresh (well hot and humid) air.

"Thank you for the coffee Miss French, but I'm late and my delivery is due any time now. I'll bid you a good day." Belle is on her feet too but not quick enough to stop him and she watches him move surprisingly quickly to the door. She's blown it. And blown whatever this fragile thing is between her and Gold. Belle slumps down in her seat, the taste of the coffee now bitter in her mouth. As Gold leaves though, Ruby comes rushing in, and throws Belle a triumphant grin. And oh, maybe Belle has snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. 

Ruby comes bustling over and takes Gold's seat. "I did it. No problem at all, you think Gold'd have better security." She hands over a bundle of envelopes. "Just please for the love of god leave the man alone now." Relief washes over Belle. She's got away with it. Gold need never know and - well, she might have terrified him off for the time being but...

00000

Gold reaches the sanctuary of his shop and slams the door shut. The last two hours of his life have been more bamboozling than the previous two years. Belle French actually made a move on him. On Rufus Gold. The same Belle French who has plagued the living daylights out of him, the same Belle French who nearly punched his front door down, has just played footsie with him in public.

He makes his way over to the counter and leans heavily on it. He has no idea what his next move should be but perhaps now isn't the time to decide. He's got the delivery due shortly and he needs to get the paperwork sorted out. He walks to a set of drawers, pulling out a folder and his favourite fountain pen before spending a rather mindless and therefore therapeutic half an hour or so drawing up a contract. By the time he's finished, Gold's equilibrium is almost restored. He's just on his way to switch the sign to 'Open' when he notices a letter that seems to have got caught beneath the door mat. Stooping to pick it up he frowns when he sees there's no stamp on it but just, in a very elegant hand, his name. 

Curious.

He decides to save it for his mid-morning tea break. Perhaps it will amuse him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @beastlycheese for leaving the best comments and being hugely supportive all the way through this story. Thank you!

Belle always prides herself on her courage but every time she’s heard the front door of the library swing open today, she hasn’t been able to completely quell the tingle of impending doom that shimmies down her spine. She feels like she’s aged a decade in the last few hours, waiting for the axe to fall.

Belle knows it’s the price she has to pay for her behaviour. Because Gold will be paying her a visit. It’s just a matter of where, and when. And if he prefers a swift execution or a decade keeping her on death row.

However, three cups of coffee, a bacon sandwich and a muffin later, Belle’s just ever so slightly starting to think she’s been reprieved and that Ruby’s action this morning has saved the day. Gold is none the wiser and so she can breathe a little more easy. So easy in fact that by five o’clock Belle’s relaxed sufficiently to be able to think about her evening plans which absolutely do not involve alcohol but do absolutely include a tub of ice cream. 

She’s happily pottering along one of the aisles shelving a selection of historical novels, pausing every now and then to read the back cover and chuckle to herself at some of the lurid descriptions, when she hears a faint noise close by. She spins round - there’s nothing to be seen but just to be on the safe side, Belle decides to lock the front doors.

She replaces the books she’s holding and makes her way to the entrance only to come to an abupt stop. Gold has his back to her and she sees that he’s turning the sign on the door to ‘Closed’. He hasn’t seen her and with the panic that’s overtaking her, she actually contemplates for a second or two as to whether she should make a run for it before realising there’s no escape route open to her. Heart in mouth she watches Gold turns round - 

And he’s holding a letter.

It's one of hers and her first thought is that she is going to kill Ruby. Ideally, slowly and painfully. One job. Ruby had one job and she has failed to deliver on it.

Her second is to offer a prayer to any nearby god that it’s not the letter that lists out all of Gold’s worst and best attributes.

Belle’s eyes flick frantically from Gold’s implacable face to the envelope in his hand and then back up to meet his eyes. The trouble with eyes that dark is that it's impossible to get a read on them. The same for the expression on his face. He could be feeling anything from fury to hurt and she'd be none the wiser.

Gold slowly and deliberately pulls the letter from its envelope and she wants to shout at him to just get on with it, to put her out of her misery, but of course he’s never going to do that because that would require a capacity for mercy, something she suspects the pawnbroker is most distinctly lacking in.

Another step, and then another, towards her until she can count each of the tiny pearl buttons on his shirt. “Imagine my surprise, Miss French, to find this beneath the shop’s doormat this morning,” Gold says as his opening gambit. “I cannot begin to think how on earth it came to be there.”

She says nothing. This is going to be bad and there is nothing she can do about it.

Gold continues, suave as ever. “It was a most enlightening read. So enlightening in fact that I wanted to share its contents with someone who I know is as fond of the use of the English language as I am.” Gold gestures at the two seats behind the desk. “Shall we?” 

It’s a rhetorical question and Belle numbly complies.

Gold takes his time in walking over, making her wait. Each step closer to her, every tap tap tap of his cane, makes the coils of liquid fire slide around her belly. Eventually, after a lifetime, he sits down, carefully tugging his trousers straight and adjusting his jacket and only now does he really look at her and Belle is reminded of a hungry wolf eyeing its prey. She can’t look away and the tension between them grows like a wire being pulled taut.

Voice low and dark, he continues. “Now where was I? Ah yes, the letter. You’ll enjoy this.” (Belle finds that very hard to believe - at this stage she’d more enjoy having all her teeth extracted without anaesthetic.) “The writer really was most creative. Let’s see now. ‘Ugly old toad.’” Belle cringes and her toes curl. “‘Bitter shrivelled up husk of a man.’ ‘Face a dog wouldn’t lick’.”

Belle winces. She can’t help it.

Gold studies her face and then drops his eyes back down to the letter, humming quietly to himself. “It seems the writer got a little bored with the abuse at this stage. Or they ran out of adjectives." A beat, and then, in a ruminative tone, "Or drunk…” And now there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes and at least, she thinks crossly, one of them is enjoying this.

“At least I hope they were drunk. It’s the only rational explanation for what’s on the next page.”

Another glimmering look in her direction until Belle has to look away, cheeks heating. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Gold running a long, tapered finger down the sheet of paper and hears him deplore the wine stains (‘so messy’) and critique the handwriting (‘like a drunken spider’) and she wonders how such an appalling man can also be so attractive. 

Aware of being watched she looks up and sees that Gold has not missed the way her gaze has lingered just a little too long on his hands and she knows her face is giving her away.

“I hope you’re not easily shocked because I’m afraid some of the language is – how shall I put it – rather base.” And can Gold’s voice get any lower and growlier? Belle crosses her legs and she sees Gold wet his lips, his eyes tracking the movement and this alone has a heady mix of lust and fear building in her chest. 

“I’ll do my very best not to,” Belle says primly. Gold’s mouth quirks. Without looking down he starts reeling off some of Belle’s innermost thoughts she’d written down when at her lowest (most frustrated).

“Alright then, let’s start with ‘How can Gold be so fucking hot?’” (Did she really write that? God, she's going to hell.)

Gold scrutinises her face and whatever he sees there clearly amuses him. “I see. Clearly you’re made of stern stuff Miss French.” (He's absolutely loving this, the arrogant bastard. If she didn't have that down as one of his 'cons', then she'd missed a trick.)

“Belle,” she hears herself say. “My name is Belle so can you please godamn use it.”

He smiles the smile of a shark and nods. “As you wish.” A pause. “Belle.” Even that sounds rude, the way he says it with that Scottish burr she hates (loves) so much that it's helped bring her off on more than one occasion since this whole sorry debacle began).

There follows possibly the most excrutiating five minutes of Belle’s life, when Gold rattles off phrase after phrase, pausing after each one to gauge her reaction.

“’Fucking rocks a suit.’” A look her way as dark as black velvet as he straightens the knot in his tie.

“Arse like two hard buns.” Gold takes a moment to pose the rhetorical question of Belle as to which buns the author might have had in mind and she has to bite down hard on on her lip for fear of saying something she might regret. If she stays silent maybe he'll get bored and leave her to wallow in self-inflicted misery.

Or perhaps not.

“I could think of a better use for his tongue, if he’d only fucking shut up for a minute.”

Gold stops now, eyes wicked and sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine.

“Now Belle. Here’s where I might need your input. Because really I have no idea what the author is talking about here. Do you suppose...”

Belle can’t take a second more of this and before she has time to think she’s on her feet and is lunging for the letter lying in Gold’s lap. Gold reacts even faster and as Belle’s hand comes down his lands on top of hers, pinning it in place. She loses her balance and in horribly slow motion, she topples into his lap.

Both of them are panting hard and Belle tries to disentangle herself only to feel Gold’s other arm snake round to hold her in place. “Stop wriggling damnit,” he grinds out and then Belle feels it. A hard length pressing against her thigh, hot and thick.

She wriggles a little bit more just to check she’s not imagining things.

She isn’t.

And while she’s busy writhing away, Gold’s hand that’s on top of hers subtly shifts, guiding both in the direction of his groin where his trousers are tenting in a most interesting fashion. It would be rude of her not to help alleviate the pain Gold is in if the tiny gasps he’s making is anything to go by so she starts to carefully ease down the zipper. At the same time, Gold’s fingers are slowly but surely inching their way up Belle’s thigh and she lifts herself up off his lap so as not to impede access. 

It’s with a shiver of delight when she sees that he’s realised she’s not wearing any panties. 

Gold sucks and then licks Belle’s pulse point before whispering, “Well now then Belle. It would be remiss of me if I didn’t perhaps show the author of the letter just how exactly I can put my tongue to good use.” Biting his way down Belle’s throat he pushes her dress up until she’s completely exposed and then to her delight, he’s down on his knees and – oh god, she never wants it to end. It’s all heat and tongue and teeth and then one finger, two fingers sliding and twisting and she threads her fingers through his hair to pull him in even closer and then she comes. And comes. And comes.

It takes her a moment or two before she can focus on the man in front of her. Gold’s never looked so debauched or dishevelled as he looks up at her from the floor, mouth glistening with her juices, pupils blown wide and Belle thinks he’s never looked so beautiful or so attainable. He's hers now. She's never going to let him slide from her grasp again.

She leans forward to press her lips to his. They’re wet and plump and taste of her. Tongues tangle and then Belle breaks free. She doesn’t want their first time to be on the dirty floor of the library. She’s thinking low lighting, soft duvets and being able to take all the time in the world.

Whispering in Gold’s ear she tells him “I’d like to return the favour but maybe somewhere more comfortable?” and is relieved when he nods and shakily gets to his feet. His trousers look a lot tighter than usual and Belle is very much looking forward to seeing what lies beneath the layers of Armani.

She carefully zips him back up, his moan as she lightly runs her hand over his erection doing unspeakable things to her insides, and grabbing her bag, drags him to the door.

“Eager much,” Gold murmurs. Belle laughs. He has no idea.

Although perhaps he does.

“I seem to remember something in the letter about...”

And she pushes the doors open and the two of them step, blinking, into heat and sun. And perhaps a new start for both of them.


End file.
